Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

rehearsal

#MusicMonday: “The Wicker Man” – Iron Maiden

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Yesterday I learned to play an Iron Maiden song.

Certain artists and bands are proceeded by so much accumulated conversation and so many cultural references that I assume I’ve heard their music at some prior point without actually knowing anything about what they sound like.

That’s always been the case for me with bands that are generationally a little before my time. I’m sure the same holds true for you with a certain handful of artists. If you’re my age, you might not be able to hum a Rush song, but you certainly know them by reputation. Same for Kate Bush. If you’re older or younger the list will be different, but the sensation will be the same. Niche artists with one or two major hits, there’s no convenient way into their catalogs on the radio, so you hear the version you’ve assumed in your head, maybe reinforced by that one greatest hit.

This covers a lot of early metal for me. Like, I know my requisite share of Black Sabbath and AC/DC songs, but that’s about it. They’re all a long parade of fantastical album covers and t-shirts worn by Wayne and Garth or Beavis and Butthead,

Yesterday, at our first duo rehearsal in over a year, Gina casually announced, “There’s this great Iron Maiden song we should cover.”

I grinned and nodded. If you know Gina or have ever listened to Arcati Crisis, you’d understand that sort of thing is a little out of our wheelhouse. Yet, I bring as many crazy ideas to the band as Gina, and the few of them that work turn into us covering “Love Game” or other similarly entertaining insanity.

Still, my interest was piqued, and I rarely turn down a musical challene, so we marched over to my mixing computer and loaded up “The Wicker Man” by Iron Maiden.

That’s not metal. At least, not the obnoxiously loud, Metallica-adjacent metal I was expecting from Iron Maiden (and, Metallic is a band I actually know). Despite being from 2000 – a time when there are a hundred different genres of metal ranging from Cookie Monster growling to soaring counter-tenors – the song was more like punk in its supreme simplicity, aside from the solo. The guitars weren’t even that loud. And the singing was incredible – ringing and dressed in multiple layers of harmony.

More or less a perfect Arcati Crisis cover tune. I played it again.

“It’s just that riff,” Gina said, indicating my reference monitors as the yoyoing chorus riff began.

“That’s not so hard,” I vowed. I picked up my twelve-string and began to work it out as Gina sang the melody above me. The song transitioned into the second verse, and I kept playing along. “It mostly sits on the root.”

I played the rhythmic Em, sliding down to pick up the C underneath it. Gina nodded and mirrored my changes on her guitar. “Right, but it doesn’t really resolve D, it has a G in bass.”

I tried it, and she was right. “Makes sense, there’s a D at the top of the next progression anyway. Hey, I think this is low enough for me to sing.” I sang through it tentatively and Gina jumped up to harmony, our voices ringing out through the room until we arrived at another chorus. “Okay, well, I can’t sing that.”

“No, wait, there’s an underneath part, give me a second.” These things really do take just a second with Gina, who is a living harmony jukebox. “Here it is, YOUR TIME WILL COME! YOUR TIME WILL COME!” I sang it back. “No, sit on the low note the first time, it only goes up on the second lines.”

The second chorus ended and we were into the extended intstrumental, with its epic guitar solo. I looked up at Gina standing over my desk. “You’re going to play the solo.”

She smirked back at me.

And that is how I got to know Iron Maiden, and how Arcati Crisis learns a cover song.

Arcati Crisis: The Wedding Band Edition

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It was our third time through “Don’t Stop Believin'” when I really did start believing Arcati Crisis could be an actual wedding band.

Rewind ten days. Onstage at a near-empty Tin Angel, my voice felt as though it was going to snap in half. I sang “Better” and “Bucket Seat” robotically, relying on muscle memory to find some in-tune notes in the pain.

Fast forward four days. Gina was too sick to rehearse, so Jake and I gathered in my attic to stare down a list of twenty new songs we had exactly four weeks to learn. It seemed daunting.

Arcati Crisis rocking at Fergies in March, courtesy of @polymwac

Reverse a month. We are playing “Apocalyptic Love Song” to a packed Fergie’s Pub, and everyone knows the words.

Finally, reverse the calendar back to February. I am a little tipsy at Gina’s dining room table with the entire team of bloggers behind PolySkeptic, half of which are two of Gina’s significant others, the pair of soon-to-be newlyweds Shaun and Ginny.

Ginny and Shaun were not planning typical wedding, and both Gina and I successfully threw a pair of atypical, untraditional, unusual weddings for ourselves. With all the uniqueness at the table, we decided it was a great idea for Arcati Crisis to act as the entertainment for their festivities. I pulled out my spreadsheet of 3,500 pieces of sheet music and we all had at it, picking out our favorite dance songs.

As the night (and, let’s be frank: the beer) wore on, our picks became more outlandish. AC covering “The Sign”? Awesome. AC covering “Don’t Stop Believin'”? No problem. We left planning to learn 4-6 new songs for the wedding, but there was also the little matter of the 4-6 new songs we were already learning as a band. We were tearing through an amazing batch of new originals, plus a pair of new covers – “A Little Respect” by Erasure, and “Love Game” by Lady Gaga.

That new batch debuted on March 16 at an awesome gig at Fergie’s Pub. It was one of those shows where everything went right. We shared the bill with Andra Taylor and Amanda Wells, and the energy in the room was incredible – as were we. I barely had a critique of myself on the way home, which is a rare occasion. I even broke a string mid-set and didn’t sweat it, simply switching to my backpacker guitar to debut our new songs.

We expected to have two entire months to learn our 4-6 cover songs, but just before the Fergie’s show we decided to take a April 19 gig at The Tin Angel. It was a month out from our last show – plenty of time to recuperate and recruit an audience, even if it pushed out our cover-learning a little.

Sadly, the Tin gig was the polar opposite of Fergies. I was in terrible voice, no thanks to a stressful week of events and meetings. We had gear problems throughout the set, probably helping accelerate the already-speedy exit of the fans brought by prior acts on the bill. After I managed to eek out the last notes of “Song for Mrs. Schroeder” from my dying voice and out-of-tune guitar I was off the stage before everyone else in the band.

Those nights are hard. You can be a well-rehearsed machine and still have an off night. I’ve seen it happen to artists a thousand times bigger than us.

What I’m sure is true for artists of any size is that it’s not only the actual night that’s hard, but the wait until your next rehearsal or show. All you have is that bad taste on your brain and fingers. It doesn’t help when that next rehearsal involves learning a slew of new songs for one of the most-anticipated days of someone’s life – especially when your star cover-singer (AKA Gina) is home sick.

Jake and I started out slowly sans Gina. We only needed 4-6 songs, after all. Oh, but what if we add another? And what if we tried that one? And wouldn’t it be fun if we really covered “You Sexy Thing”?

Here’s where being a well-rehearsed machine comes in handy. Jake can pick out the skeleton of any song on bass – it doesn’t matter if it’s a cover or an original. I can arrange anything for a band, even seemingly single-note songs. Between the two of us, we learned the basics of 20 cover songs.

You know what else? I listened to the recording of the Tin Angel. Yes, the gear problems are evident, but my voice? Sounded just fine. It might have been the best version of “Better” I’ve ever sung, even if I felt like I would cry while I was singing it.

Add to that the fact that Gina’s performance at our next acoustic rehearsal reminded us that she can sing anything… anything, and our prospects as a wedding band were looking up.

That brings us to Sunday, our weekly rock rehearsal with Zina on drums. Zina can perfect any song in three tries, and she is a wunderkind at adapting covers to our peculiar needs. Together, we crushed the list of the ten new cover songs that made it past Gina, Jake, and I on our first run-through. Yes, there is plenty to tune up, but we got through them. And…

Peter: Zina, we’re not going to try “Don’t Stop Believin’.” It was kinda terrible when we tried it acoustic.

Zina: Well, I learned it.

Peter: Why am I not surprised.

Jake: Actually, I learned it too.

Peter: I know it. I just don’t think it’s going to sound good.

Gina: Oh, hell, let’s just give it a try.

We proceeded to play a very shaky version of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Not one I would put up in front of people. Then we tweaked a few things and played it again. It sounded almost as good as a bad bar band. We added Gina on guitar and some harmony from me and played it again…

Reverse the calendar to February. The Polyskeptic gang and I, tipsy and laughing around the table about the ridiculous covers Arcati Crisis might undertake.

Fast forward to March. We are debuting our cover of “Love Game” on stage to a packed Fergie’s Pub, and everyone is dancing.

Fast forward another month. Jake and I learned 20 new songs in three hours. We didn’t skip a single one.

Rewind four days. Gina looks over at me and smiles as I sing the wailing high harmony to “Cosmonaut’s Wife” on stage at the Tin Angel – it’s the first time I’ve done it at a show.

Fast forward ten days. My eyes twinkle with tears as Gina and I harmonize on songs I’ve been singing my entire life. “Is it strange to dance so soon?” “Do you remember when we used to sing?” “No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong.” Zina asks if we can try “Tonight Tonight” and we stumble through it impressively – a wall of sound, all of us singing harmony, all of us laughing every time we mess up and have to start again.

It was our third time through “Don’t Stop Believin'” when I really did start believing Arcati Crisis could be an actual wedding band.

swimming with rock

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“It is now stupid o’clock.”

This was Jake. Or Gina. I don’t say it, generally, and I know that I saw Zina nod in response.

It is impossible to deny that – after a certain amount of evening rock on top of each of our full days at work – our quartet of brains begin to dribble out of our ears, at which point they promptly get blasted into a fine mist by the power of rock emanating from our various amps and speakers, until the air is swimming with rock and thoughts and laughter.

This is usually around the start of hour three, if we have paced ourselves.

I have nothing left in my body once it is over, no brains or thoughts or anything. Last night I tried to send an email to the band after they left, and like a bad dream about garbled numbers on a phone dial I couldn’t get it right. I kept sending it over and over, missing addressees, words, and attachments – a mini episode of Groundhog’s Day on All Marmot’s Eve.

I used to resist rehearsal reaching a point of silliness. You know me – I’m too elitist and serious and scarf-wearing for that. Eventually I began to appreciate it, and the brain drain I feel in its wake. Silly is good. It means we’re limber and willing to try things, like playing a dance cover twice as fast as we’ve ever done it before (and nailing it).

Brainless is good, too. It means we left everything in the room. In the air. I wouldn’t want to feel like I had a sparkling wit to wield after rehearsal. Then I think we would have done it wrong.

Arcati Crisis always experiences a bit of a lull in December and January, but this year it made me feel particularly desperate. We had been playing so regularly in 2011, and the songs were reaching an amazing locked-in state. Then came holidays and flu and travel, and when we met back together on the other side it had been over a month since we last played – out or in – and the songs were feeling a little flabby.

I’m impatient, and I wanted the tightness back immediately, but it doesn’t work that way. With four people making music in a room – our music, anyway – it’s not just about notes.We’re not an orchestra that tunes up and unfurls the same notes every time with precision. We need to loosen before we tighten.

Sometimes we become a little silly in the process.

voiced concerns

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Last night at about 9:10pm I lost my voice. I have yet to locate it this morning.

I’ve learned that discretion is the better part of valor when it comes to rehearsing while under the weather. It happens to everyone, and it can feel good to make some music when you feel run down, but better to have your voice for a performance than blow it showing off at rehearsal.

Except, we were rehearsing “Better.” It’s nowhere near the highest or most-difficult vocal I’ve written for myself, but it has an obscene degree of difficulty for me when fronting the whole band. Lots of words. Lots of quick melodic jumps. And then there are the Bs – I have to hit three of them dead on during each chorus to support our new three part harmony – 12 in total. Due to where that note falls in my range, I tend to both be flat and push too hard. (Contradictory, I know).

Anyhow, last night by 9:10pm I had maybe noticed some chinks in my voice when I had no falsetto to switch to in “Dumbest Thing I Could Do,” but on the whole I thought I had been relatively cautious. Then came the final “Better” of the night. Verse one went fine, but in the chorus the Bs were murder. Verse two was raspy and kindof hot sounding, but the second chorus pushed my voice to the brink. I was barely getting on top of the Bs, and it was a Herculean effort to sustain them and keep them nice and sharp.

Afterwards, in the bridge, my voice was barely there, even with my face pressed right up against the microphone, absorbing tiny electric shocks. By the time we reached the third one I was kindof just emceeing the song. “Cause we were so!” I would bark, and then Gina and Jake would chime in harmoniously, “high!” Then, I would call “and I?” and they would respond like an elite military corps, “tried!”

By the time we crossed the finish line, my voice had completely disappeared. These things have been known to correct themselves overnight, but I awoke this morning with not even the barest squeak in my throat – and it even hurt to do that.

No talking for me today, or really over the weekend as a whole. Hopefully I get some semblance of it back by Tuesday for our spotlight at Studio Luloo.

Even if I do, I think I might stay away from “Better.”

the tyranny of the click

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I have never been good at playing to a click track.

[For non-musicians, a click track is a simple rhythm track that plays in your ear while you record to help you keep time. It can be as simple as a beats-per-minute setting that plays a little “beep” for every passing beat.]

For a long time that was a function of other, more major issues in my guitar playing. I was dropping beats left and right and my strums were like the thrashes of a dying man. Not lining up with clicks was the least of my problems.

I still cannot quite play to a click track, even with half a lifetime to refine my playing. Now my problem is syncopation – I so very rarely strum on all the downbeats the click usually slides away from me as I play.

Why is the click so important?

First, it satisfies the musical leanings of my internal OCD Godzilla, who needs things to be both perfect and perfectly aligned. He does not truck with deviations in speed or rhythm, and has put the nix on many fine solo recordings of mine because they ever-so-slightly sped up.

Second, for flexibility. Overdubbing, stealing riffs for other verses, patching biffed guitar solos, and dance remixes. They’re all easier when a song is recorded to a consistent click track.

Though I still can’t play to basic clicks, after a year of drumming with Zina I have no problems playing to a basic rhythm that sketches in a bit more than just the main beats in a measure. A simple rhythm on my Casio keyboard can now keep my songs in time.

That’s fine for me solo, but what about the entire band?

We’ll find out on Saturday: we have a drum engineering session scheduled with Zina. She’ll record her parts to two Filmstar songs with a metronome playing in-ear, and then we’ll all dub our parts on top of her.

In effect, we’re recording like a real band would record, which makes our house a real recording studio, and me a real recording engineer. Plus, the tracks will be a consistent speed.

OCD Godzilla is incredibly pleased.